Marked
by Flaignhan
Summary: His heart freezes when he sees the red dot fluttering about on her neck.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** An anon sent me a prompt on tumblr. This is the result. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

 **Marked**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

 _I think I'm being followed._

The text message comes out of the blue, at a quarter to nine on a Thursday evening. He considers it for a moment, his brow drawn into a frown. How long has she been sitting on this? How many times has she looked over her shoulder before she managed to convince herself that she's not losing her mind?

 _I'm coming._

His response is short; he won't waste time questioning her via text. Nor does he waste time putting away his petri dishes, despite being a month into testing. She's more important than that.

He pulls on his coat and scarf, grabs his keys, and leaves the flat, descending the stairs in a hurry. He hails a cab before the front door slams, and he's on his way. She's not far, but he will not delay himself. Not when she's sent him a text like that.

Molly's texts tend to come with at least one X at the end, sometimes two - three, if she's asking for a favour, but this one came without. She's scared, and she's hastily trying to get the message to him.

She's in danger, he's certain of it, and the thought of it makes his blood chill in his veins, a clammy fist gripping his heart.

When the cab pulls up outside her block, Sherlock throws a twenty pound note through the hole in the perspex and doesn't wait for the change. He runs across the courtyard, darting between parked cars, and thumbs in the key code at the entrance, shaking the door impatiently until the lock releases.

He presses and holds the button for the lift, and when, after ten seconds, it does not arrive, he begins to pummel the button, first with the tips of his index and middle fingers, then with the side of his fist. The ding of the doors sounds, and Sherlock is inside before the doors are halfway opened, hammering on the button for the fourteenth floor. His insides churn as he gets closer and closer to the flat.

The nasty part of his brain, the part that always pushes him towards bad decisions, tells him that he's too late, that he's not arriving at Molly's home, but at a crime scene, that he'll either find what's left of her, or no trace at all.

Bile rises in his throat and he forces his mind onto other things. He tries to recall every colour in the jumper she was wearing last Wednesday, and when he's reeled those off inside his head, he reminds himself of the way her ponytail swings like a pendulum as she walks along the corridors at Bart's.

His hands are sweating, and he pulls his keys from his pocket as the lift doors open and spit him out onto the fourteenth floor. He finds her key, the shiny silver one with the particularly deep cut in it a third of the way along. He inserts it into the lock, turning it slowly and opening the door an inch or so.

"Molly?" he says, his voice just loud enough to carry through the flat. "It's me."

There is a clatter as the door wrenches open, and Molly is standing there, a frying pan lying abandoned at her feet. He looks down at it, and raises an eyebrow.

"Expecting someone?"

"Come in," Molly hisses, taking him by the wrist and pulling him inside. She closes the door behind him and puts the security chain in place. She doesn't say anything, and he knows she's thinking it all through. What _it_ is, he has no idea, but he doesn't care, because what matters is that she's unharmed.

"Tell me," he says. His eyes take in her appearance, the chewed thumbnail of her right hand, the dark circles under her eyes, the shallow breaths which indicate a fast beating heart.

She chews on the inside of her lip, a worried frown forming. "It's silly really," she says, her eyes brighter than usual. She's worried. _Really_ worried.

"Tell me."

"I haven't actually seen anyone," she says. She doesn't make eye contact. "It's just...it's a feeling."

"Since when?"

She looks up to the ceiling as she casts her mind back. "I think I first noticed it about four days ago."

"For _God's sake_ , Molly," he snaps, pacing into the living room. He grips his hair in frustration, his brain whirring too fast for any of the thoughts to stop and be noticed.

"I _know_ ," she says, following him, her slippers scuffing on the laminate flooring. "I know it's stupid - "

"What's _stupid_ is you leaving it _four days_ to tell me." He swears under his breath, then turns to look at her, his eyes fixed on hers. "I don't care how stupid you think it is, you _always_ tell me, as soon as you think something's wrong." His heart is hammering now, and guilt pierces him. His brain gives him reason after reason as to why she might not have approached him sooner, but he pushes it all away, forcing himself to concentrate on the present.

"But what if it's just - "

"I don't _care_ ," he says. "Just tell me."

She looks down at the floor and doesn't say anything. Maybe he's being too harsh, but she _must_ realise that her safety is more important than anything. He'd rather spend a few hours laying her worries to rest if it means that she's safe.

He steps closer to her, placing a hand on her upper arm and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Tell me everything," he says softly. "Don't leave anything out."

"That's the thing," Molly says, her fingers curling around the edges of her too-long sleeves. "There's nothing to tell. It's just this weird feeling I get."

"Constantly?" Sherlock asks, his brow quirking. "Or when you're travelling, at home, where?"

"Not at work," she says, nodding certainly. "But as soon as I get out, and until I get back, it's there."

"But you've seen nothing?" He watches her for any sign of doubt, but she is resolute.

"Nothing," she confirms.

He swears internally, not wanting to worry her. If she'd seen something, had heard footsteps behind her, or had any clue other than the hair on the back of her neck, he'd feel more confident about the situation. If there were any signs at all, he could likely trace it back to some weirdo ex-boyfriend that needed a healthy threat, or maybe some low level criminal trying and failing to find an opportunity to mug her on the way back to her flat.

This is someone who knows what they're doing, and for some awful reason, their attentions are focused on Molly.

He wonders if he's brought this on her, if someone is trying to get at him through her. But how would they know? She's never, to his knowledge, been pictured with him, she's not public knowledge, she's safely tucked away from all that.

Or so he thought.

"Sherlock, I'm scared."

"I know, he says, and then he searches his brain for some words of comfort. "But scared is good, scared means you noticed, scared means you texted me."

She forces a smile, but he can tell she's not feeling optimistic.

His heart freezes when he sees the red dot fluttering about on her neck.

He leaps forward, forcing her to the ground as the window shatters, and he feels a white hot, stinging sensation in his arm. His knuckles flare with pain as they crash into the floorboards, Molly's head cradled in his palm. He listens hard, his body crushed against Molly's, her breath fast and panicked against his neck. A second shot doesn't come.

"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine." Her voice is shaking, but she swallows her fear.

"Stay here." He fixes his eyes on hers, and after a moment she nods and Sherlock eases himself off of her. He crawls towards the hallway, his right hand protesting anytime he puts any weight on it. Only once he's out of sight of the shattered window does he stand up and reach around the corner for the light switch. With one swift click, he immerses them in darkness.

He hears Molly begin to move. "Not yet," he whispers, and he skirts around the edge of the lounge. He chances a glance out of the window but the shot could have come from any of the dozens of flats in the opposite block. He drops the blind, then returns to Molly, holding out his left hand for her to take.

"Come on," he says. "Into the kitchen."

Her hand clasps his, and he can feel her trembling, so he pulls her to her feet and keeps a firm hold on her as he guides her out of the lounge.

"D'you think they'll come to the flat?" Molly asks. Even though she's terrified, she's forging ahead, just as she always does.

"No," Sherlock replies. "Too risky." He takes his phone from his pocket and clumsily types a text with his left hand. Molly's face is illuminated by the blue glow of his screen, and her eyes flick from his face to his left hand.

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing serious," he says. "You can look at it when we get somewhere safe."

"I'll need my kit then," she says. Sherlock nods, hits send, and then slips his phone back into his pocket. "Where are we going? Your place?"

"No," Sherlock replies, and he covers his face with his hands, just for a moment, to try and make some sense of this madness. There's only one reason, one person who might bother, to target Molly Hooper, but he refuses to believe it, even with a sniper bullet and a shattered fourteenth floor window. There's something that theory that just doesn't add up, his lightheadedness is making it even harder for him to put the pieces together.

"Why me?" Molly asks in a mumble.

"I don't know," Sherlock sighs, and he reaches out in the dark, finds her hand, and pulls her towards him, wrapping his arms around her. He rests his cheek against her head and tries to force himself to think, but he hasn't dragged Molly into anything at all. This doesn't feel like a vicious act of revenge from Moriarty, it's not payback for Molly's part in the plan. It's too wild, and too random for him. It must be something else. There _must_ be a reason, hiding in the shadows. She hasn't attracted a contract killer all by herself.

She's still shaking, and so he holds her that little bit tighter, because he can't comfort her with answers or logic. He can't even pretend he's got this under control. For all he knows, they could step outside the flat and be shot down in a heartbeat. They haven't much choice though, and he doesn't want to call Lestrade, who will cause a panic of blue flashes and wailing sirens.

"I'll take you somewhere safe," he mumbles; his words sound lazy as they tumble from his lips.

Molly pulls away from him, and even in the dark he can see the sharp lines of her concern, the pursed lips, the stern, set position of her shoulders as she surveys him.

"Sherlock..." She gently pats him down; first his chest, feeling his ribs, checking for damage, then his stomach. Her hands moves to his face and her fingertips are warm. He can still feel the faint tremor of fear that will hang around for a good while yet.

"What?" he asks. He lets his head rest in her hands, closing his eyes and relishing in the peace.

"Where did the bullet go?" Her question comes out in a worried whisper, but he hears it clear as day, and straightens up, just as she runs her hands up his forearms, towards his shoulders.

They both recoil when she reaches the warm wet patch of his coat, and Sherlock bites down hard on his lip, trying to force himself to focus on a different kind of pain. He slides down the wall, and Molly goes with him, her hands slick with blood when she touches his face.

"Concentrate," she tells him, and he tries, he _does_ try, but everything feels wrong. He can't get his bearings in the dark, and he can't stop thinking about that person in the block opposite who has set their sights on Molly, and what will happen if he doesn't get her to safety. In his head, he sees the bullet disappear into her neck. It's a clean entry wound, such is the nature of the sniper rifle, but of course, the job is done properly, and arterial blood floods from her throat, soaking her clothes. Before he can take a breath, it's far too late.

The light is switched on, and it's bright and it's painful and it's dangerous. Before he can stop her, she's sneaking back into the lounge, keeping low, so she can grab her kit bag. He counts the footsteps as she hurries back, and they get louder and louder until she's there, in front of him, her cheek streaked with scarlet from where she's fumbled, tucking her hair behind her ear. She's wiped the excess blood on the front of her jumper, and Sherlock reminds himself that it's fine, because it's his blood, and not hers.

She pulls on a pair of gloves, then crouches down and pulls him forward so she can slip his coat over his shoulders.

"You're such an idiot," she breathes, and she works his sleeve down his arm. He hisses when she lifts his arm, but she keeps going. He's run out of chances with painkillers.

She unbuttons his shirt, her fingers working at a speed he's rarely seen. There's no need for haste with the dead.

She cleans away the excess blood and peers into the tear in his flesh. "Well," she says slowly, "the bullet's not inside. It's a nasty graze." She applies pressure to the wound, pressing down hard with heel of her palm. Sherlock kicks out involuntarily, the toe of his shoe colliding with the base of the kitchen cabinets opposite. "Lots of mess," she adds, "lots of drama, but that's just you, isn't it?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he leans his head back against the wall as things begin to steady themselves out.

"I can stitch this up," Molly tells him, "But you really should be in hospital. You've lost quite a bit if blood."

"I'm fine," he says, opening his eyes and sitting up straighter, despite knowing he cannot fool her. "I'm fine. Just patch me up and we'll get out of here."

She fixes him with a hard look, but says nothing. He feels that wrinkle of disapproval work its way down his torso, and linger a bit in his stomach, before she readjusts her grip on his arm so she can maintain pressure with one hand, and inspect his bruised and swollen knuckles with the other.

"I can't even complain you were being reckless," she says, her eyes bright as she looks down at his hand. "You saved my life."

"Just returning the favour," he tells her, and he manages a small smile, which in turn tugs at her lips, lifting her, just a little.

"So we're even then?" she asks.

"Not bloody likely," he replies. "I've only saved yours once, and it's probably my fault in the first place."

"How is it your fault?" She's frowning again now, and he wonders if she's only just realised that he's brought this upon her. Somehow.

"Have you annoyed anyone with trained snipers at their disposal lately?" Sherlock asks. He raises an eyebrow and waits for her answer.

She laughs, just a little, and the worry in the pit of his stomach eases.

"Your brother, maybe." She smiles, but it fades when Sherlock pushes himself away from the wall, his brain slotting things together.

"We need to go." He tries to stand up, but she pushes him back with ease. He sits against the wall, his body limp, while she stitches the wound in his arm back together, the nerves flaring when she pulls the thread tight. He allows her to set his knuckles and bandage them into place. He even lets her wipe the blood from his face with a damp cloth.

The knock at the door startles them both, and Molly looks to him for guidance. An almost imperceptible wobble of her chin gives away her apprehension.

"Sherlock? It's me, I got your text."

His shoulders sag at the sound of Mary's voice, and Molly stands up, her worry having made way for confusion. She disappears into the hallway, and Sherlock hears the rattle of the security chain as she pulls it free, followed by the click of the latch and the squeak of the top hinge.

Mary walks into the kitchen, takes one look at Sherlock, and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Did you get shot _again_?"

"Occupational hazard," he quips. "I need you to take Molly somewhere safe," he says, and he can see Molly hovering in the hallway, a million questions in her eyes. He'll leave it up to Mary to answer those.

Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and grips the kitchen counter, goose pimples raising on his chest. With his good hand, he makes a clumsy attempt at pulling his shirt back on. Molly squeezes past Mary in the doorway, and pulls the two edges of his shirt front together, fastening the buttons.

"What's happening?" Her question is quiet, and directed only to him. "Why are you dragging Mary into this?"

"She's far more capable of looking after you than I am," he replies. "She'll take you to a safe house."

Molly takes a moment to digest this information, and he tries to catch her eye, but she's focused on his shirt buttons.

"Trust me." His voice is low, and the words have the desired effect, because she finally looks at him, her eyes drinking in his expression.

"I _do_ trust you," she says. "Of course I do. But it doesn't mean you're not going to do something stupid."

"I'm not going to - "

"You should be in hospital," she says, interrupting before he can argue. "Or at least resting. You can't just - "

"I'm not going to do - "

"She's right,"

This time, it's Mary who interrupts. Her eyes linger on his face, and presumably the way he feels is evident in his pallor. "You'll be no use to anyone in this state. You're a liability."

"I'm going to see Mycroft," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm not about to hunt down a sniper."

"Not yet," Mary adds.

"Well they have just tried to put a bullet in Molly." His patience is wearing thin. He doesn't have time for arguments.

"I know," Mary tells him, taking a step into the kitchen. "And I'll help you sort it, but right now, the priority is to get out. That's what you wanted, so that's what we're doing."

Molly looks between the two of them, and Sherlock can tell that he brain is whirring, trying to fill in the blanks that she knows she's missed.

"You can drop me off on Jerwood Place," he says at last. He looks between Molly and Mary, and after a moment, Mary gives a nod of grudging agreement. He turns to Molly, and she shrugs. She has, it seems, given up on the idea of him 'taking it easy'.

He knows they're both right, knows that he is alarmingly self destructive when things get serious, but he _must_ talk to Mycroft. As terrible as he feels right now, with the flesh of his arm torn open by a bullet, and his knuckles battered by the floorboards, it's nothing, nothing at all in comparison to how he felt when he saw that little red dot on Molly's neck. She is marked, for whatever godforsaken reason, and he needs to _un_ mark her, needs to wipe her slate clean, because he knows, without logic or reason, that it is down to him.

Mary leads the way out of the flat, and Molly throws everything into her kitbag, and heads into the hallway. She pulls on her coat and shoves her feet into her shoes then waits for Sherlock to go ahead, her eyes watching his uneven gait. She slings her kit bag over her shoulder, and shoves her essentials into the large pockets of her parka. Finally, she closes the door of the flat behind her and the pair of them follow Mary into the lift.

"Are you sure we should..." Molly doesn't finish her sentence, but she doesn't need to.

"Even snipers are wary of killing people in plain sight. If we sneak out the back, there won't be any chance of witnesses. Safety in numbers." Mary gives her a reassuring smile and hits the button for the ground floor. The doors slide shut, and with a jolt that jars Sherlock's arm, sending pain signals shooting up towards his neck, they begin their descent.

Mary has parked the car in the courtyard, and Molly opens the door for Sherlock. As he gets in the back, he senses her hand hovering above his head, a shield between his skull and the edge of the car. After everything so far this evening, a head injury is not something they want to add to their list.

As Molly hurries round the other side of the car, Sherlock feels his heart rate quicken, and that lingering sense of dread and panic when she could be taken from him at any moment. It doesn't disappear when she gets into the car and clips her seatbelt into place, nor does it fade when they turn onto the main road. He watches her, her face illuminated in flashes of headlights, flickering sirens, and the red glow of brake lights.

He reaches out across the middle seat and covers her hand with his. She turns her head to look at him, but he can't help looking forwards, the number plate of the car in front fixed in his mind. She curls her fingers around his, and it helps, it helps to have her hand in his, blood pumping in the veins beneath her skin, life coursing through her.

When they reach Jerwood Place, Sherlock hesitates before getting out.

"Go," Mary says. "I'll look after her."

He nods, then ducks out of the car and closes the door behind him. Molly is watching him through the tinted window, but then Mary pulls away and they're both gone, leaving Sherlock standing on the pavement, a biting wind sending a chill juddering through his bones.


	2. Chapter 2

**Marked**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

"What happened to you?" Mycroft spares the briefest of glances for the tear in Sherlock's coat and his bandaged hand.

"A sniper just tried to kill Molly." He looks at the painting behind Mycroft's desk; he doesn't want him to see the panic and dread that Sherlock has locked away in a box at the back of his mind. He _will_ see it, but he doesn't need to see its full extent.

"Why, what have you dragged her into this time?" He folds his newspaper, placing it on the desk, then links his fingers and sits back in his chair, surveying Sherlock. After a moment, the dispassionate gaze flickers with concern.

"Not me, you," Sherlock says. He collapses into the armchair opposite Mycroft and concentrates on the lines of his face. Some become harder and more pronounced, while others slacken during his thought process.

A brief smile of incredulity flashes across Mycroft's lips. "Me? You want to blame this on me? What could I have possibly - "

"We both know she didn't bring this on herself," Sherlock snaps. "It's either me, or you, and it's not me."

"Could be Moriarty," Mycroft suggests, shifting in his seat to make himself more comfortable. "Just because he's dead it doesn't mean his friends are. If one of them found out she helped..."

"And how would they find that out?"

Mycroft pauses, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's bloody arm. "Indiscretion from one of your...acquaintances?"

"You have a file on her, I know you do," Sherlock argues. He will not entertain the idea that someone he knows would have betrayed Molly, knowingly or not.

"Well it's not like I've put _that_ in there," Mycroft laughs and pushes himself up out of his seat. He strolls over to one of his filing cabinets, pushes his key into the top lock, then opens the second drawer down. He leafs through the brown folders then pulls out one with Molly's name written in block capitals on the tab. "Take a look for yourself," he says, tossing the file onto the desk in front of Sherlock. He pulls the file towards him and flips open the cover.

There is a blank page.

He turns over, but there's nothing. Just one blank sheet of A4 after another. He goes through every single page to ensure her information isn't tucked away somewhere. Mycroft steps forward, his brow creased.

"Is this a joke?" Sherlock demands, thrusting the file and its pages, now in disarray, towards him.

Mycroft inspects the contents of the file for half a second, then marches back to the filing cabinet and pulls open another drawer. Sherlock can tell the calm facade is covering a muted panic. There's a tell, in the way his jaw sets and his expression hardens. He rifles through another folder, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock stands up and sees more blank pages, but Mycroft returns the dummy file to its place. He pulls open the bottom drawer and is content with the last file. Sherlock can see columns of text, zoomed, grainy photographs, and schedules.

With forced calm, Mycroft returns the last file and closes the drawer. He stands up to his full height, puffing out his chest as he locks the filing cabinet and drops the keys back into his inside jacket pocket.

"Is there much point in locking it?" Sherlock's acid tone breaks the silence.

" _Don't_ , Sherlock."

"Don't _what_?" Sherlock growls. He takes a step forward, ignoring the pain that shoots through his knuckles as he squeezes his fist. "You've got a bloody _mole_ , and now every single detail of _her_ existence is in the hands of god only knows _who_ \- "

"We've had seventy people working on this for almost two years - "

"I don't _care_ how long you've spent on it, this is her _life_ , Mycroft! Her _life_! Do you not get that?" Sherlock tries to assess Mycroft's reaction, but his face is a blank sheet. "Did you not stop to consider that she might actually want to hang on to that? She _saved me_ and now she's in danger because of your stupid, obsessive habits!"

Mycroft blinks. "Obsessive? Sherlock, that really is the pot calling the kettle - "

"Oh _shut up_ , Mycroft. Even if you had friends, I wouldn't be keeping tabs on them." The words spill out of him, spiteful, and full of venom. His jaw quivers with rage and he places his hands on top of the chair, his fingertips digging in to the green leather.

He paces around the room, one hand gripping his hair, tugging at the roots. He cannot believe that Mycroft could be so stupid. How had Molly's file gone astray in the first place? How had she gotten dragged into this mess? Why _her_ file? Out of all the files in this office, why that one, and why a sniper?

Mycroft at least has the courtesy to look solemn, his head bowed, the colour drained from his face.

"What are you going to about it?" Sherlock asks through gritted teeth. Mycroft's eyes meet Sherlock's and he exhales softly, resignation setting in. He walks over to his desk and picks up the phone, lifting it to his ear and dialling three digits on the keypad. He gets an instant answer, and starts giving instructions. His voice is weary, failure evident in every inch of him.

"We need to abort operation High Tide," he says. "With immediate effect." There's a pause, and then his eyebrows draw together, his voice hard. "Immediate effect." He slams down the phone and sits down in his chair.

Sherlock is still putting the pieces together, but he can't bridge the gap from Mycroft to the sniper. Whichever way he slices it, it just doesn't make sense.

"When did you last see her file?" Sherlock asks. His arm is sore, and he's tired, and his swollen knuckles are pressing against his bandages. He needs to finish this, sooner rather than later.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, staring into space. "Maybe..."

"Four days ago? Five at a stretch?" Sherlock doesn't bother to keep his mocking tone at bay, nor does he wait for Mycroft's confirmation. "So what mess have you gotten her into? Who are you going to have to grovel to in order to save her life?"

Mycroft shoots him a look, but Sherlock's on a roll, and he won't stop now.

"And who's your _mole_?" Sherlock asks. He goes to fold his arms, but thinks better of it when a spasm of pain shoots through his arm. "You should get that sorted as well. I do hope you weren't planning a quiet night in." He sits down in the chair again, and he can feel the tension tightening in Mycroft's shoulders. It's like winding up a clockwork toy. So easy. So predictable.

"Sherlock - "

"And not only were you outsmarted by a mole; you were outsmarted by a mole who's idiotic enough to think that Molly Hooper is an MI6 trained spy. I mean this really is _extraordinary_." He laughs, but he doesn't find it funny at all. "And the safety of the country depends on you? Did no one else apply for the job?"

" _Look_ ," Mycroft raises his voice, as though volume will counter Sherlock's persistence. "I'm sorry you got shot but - "

Sherlock raises his leg and slams the heel of his shoe into the edge of Mycroft's desk. A pen rolls onto the floor, and his teacup rattles in its saucer.

"You _know_ that's not what this is about!" he growls. "She could have _died_ because of you."

Mycroft sighs, his shoulders sagging. "Where is she now? We can offer her protection."

"Who's we?" Sherlock asks. "You and your _mole_?"

Mycroft's jaw tightens, but that's the only giveaway that the barb has landed with any effect.

"Is she with Mary?" Mycroft asks. He collects a handful of papers from his desk and shuffles them together. Were this any other day, any other situation, there would be joy in seeing the guilt worm its way through him.

"Of course she is."

Mycroft nods. "Go to her. I'll be in touch when I've sorted things out."

Sherlock stands up, the chair scooting backwards behind him. He turns and heads for the door without another word, but his hand pauses on the door handle. One last question is nagging at him.

"Why did you have her file out in the first place?"

Mycroft opens his drawer and pulls out a small notebook, places it on the desk, and begins to leaf through it. "To update it."

"Update it with _what_?"

Mycroft lets out a sigh. "To say that you're becoming evermore dependent on her."

Sherlock laughs, "What, because I don't want her to die?" he says incredulously.

Mycroft shrugs, then looks up at him, his expression thoughtful. "Isn't that about as close as you get to saying 'I love you'?"

Sherlock grits his teeth, then opens the door as swiftly as he can manage without causing lasting damage to his arm, steps out into the corridor, and slams the door behind him.

* * *

She pulls him close as soon as he steps into the house, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. It's soothing, and something that he's not used to, nor altogether comfortable with. He's been running on reserve all evening, and he sags against her, breathing deeply. The scent of her fills him, neutralising his bad temper, bit by bit.

"Are you all right?" Her hair muffles the sound of his voice.

"Yeah," she breathes. "You?"

"Yeah," he says, but it doesn't stop her from fussing over him. She helps him remove his coat and jacket so she can see for herself that he hasn't aggravated his wound. After a minute of inspection under the dim glow of the hallway light, she is satisfied, and she leads him into the living room, his hand held gently in hers.

"He needs to rest," she tells Mary, who is sitting in a chintz armchair, deep in concentration.

"Give him the sofa," she says. "We should all stay together."

Sherlock doesn't bother arguing, and it's just as well. Molly is able to push him carefully back onto the sofa, and he goes down without any resistance. He lies down, and Molly covers hm with a thick, musty blanket, then sits down on the floor next to the sofa, as though she, like Mary, is on guard duty.

"Did you get any answers from Mycroft?" Mary asks. She turns, and sends a brief look to Sherlock, but then resumes her position, sitting forward in her seat, ready to spring at any moment.

"He's making some calls," Sherlock says, and he tries, and fails, to stifle a yawn.

"Why is it happening?" Molly's voice is soft and steady, and Sherlock can see through half closed eyelids that she is staring resolutely ahead. "Why me?"

He reaches out his fingers to play with a stray lock of hair, but she doesn't show any sign of noticing.

"Mycroft's been exceptionally careless," he tells her. "He's correcting his mistake."

Molly's expression hardens. "His mistake nearly had me killed."

"I know," Sherlock says, and he moves his hand to her shoulder, his thumb tracing back and forth against her skin. "I gave him hell for it."

There's a quirk of a smile. "Yeah?" She turns to look at him, her eyes bright. She's not had enough yet. She hasn't reached her limit, but he wants, more than anything, to never push her any further than this.

"Yeah," Sherlock says. He smiles, despite his aches, despite his tiredness, and despite the fact that smiling always feels a little bit alien.

"Good," Molly says, and she links her hand with his. "Get some sleep."

He follows orders, and when he opens his eyes, he knows time has passed. There is a shift in the house, a creak of a floorboard, or something that doesn't sit quite right in the silence. Sunlight has started creeping across the room, and Molly is fast asleep, her head resting against his arm, a patchwork quilt sitting in crumpled folds in her lap.

Mary is on her feet, and she looks at Sherlock through the mirror above the fireplace. He sits up, shaking off the grogginess. Molly stirs, and Sherlock gives her a nudge to wake her.

"What's - "

Sherlock places his finger against her lips and she falls silent. He gets up, and there is a short spell of dizziness before he is able to focus himself. He holds out a hand to Molly, who looks at him as though he's an idiot. Her eyes flick towards the blood soaked sleeve of his shirt, and she gets to her feet without his help.

He guides her over to the corner, behind the side of a cabinet holding a selection of Wedgewood knock offs. He stands in front of her, boxing her into the corner. Mary moves behind the door, gun held firmly in her hands, the silencer casting a long shadow across her face.

For a moment, he wonders if he's gone deaf. When the door opens it is without a single noise, and a man dressed in black, a balaclava disguising his face, steps into the room.

He points his gun at Sherlock.

"Who wants to go first?"

Sherlock moves back against Molly, and he can feel her breath on his back, hot and fast. Her hand closes around his forearm, and she rests her forehead between his shoulder blades. He can feel her trying to steady her breath, to calm down and keep her mind as present as possible in case she needs to think fast.

"The message will get through to you soon enough," Sherlock says, his voice sounding more confident than he feels. "She's a civilian, and your little spy is an idiot. She's not involved in your world, so you can turn around and leave now, or I'll have to go to the trouble of obtaining a bodybag for you."

"You're unarmed." The reply is smug. "And injured. I'm not sure you'd be a match for me." The pistol is raised, aimed directly at his heart.

"It's not me you should be worried about."

There is a brief flash of realisation in the eyes, but Sherlock turns away, shielding Molly. She is even more accustomed to death than he is, but she does not need to see this. She does not need the image ingrained on the inside of her eyelids, waiting for her every night when she goes to sleep.

He waits for the thunk of the silenced pistol, and the thud of the body is instantaneous.

Mary is, as ever, entirely efficient and utterly dependable.

"I'll call Mycroft," she says, and he's glad; he's not sure he can face another round with his brother. Not when, hours later, things still aren't fixed, and now they have the company of a corpse for good measure.

Mary disappears into the hallway, phone pressed to her ear. After a moment, Sherlock hears the words, "It's done," followed by, "Get your team to come and clean up. I've taken care of enough of your mess for once evening."

Sherlock can't keep the smirk from his face. Hearing someone else reprimand Mycroft is a rare treat.

"You're enjoying it too much," Molly says. Sherlock looks down, and there is a ghost of a smile on her lips. She's tired, and shaken, but she'll be fine. He'll see to that.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "What could I possibly be enjoying? I _have_ been shot you know. Might just be delirium; loss of blood, you know."

"You were _grazed_ ," she says, and she extricates herself from him, stepping out from behind the cabinet. Her eyes land on the body, and the spray of scarlet that has redecorated the armchair. There are clumps of grey matter on the carpet, and she swallows, then goes to fetch his jacket. She holds it up for him, and he gets the message loud and clear.

They take a cab home. Molly is silent for the journey, her head resting against the window, face illuminated with flashes of streetlights as they travel homewards. The sky is lightening, transforming from a deep black to an inky blue. Soon enough, they turn into Baker Street.

The sight of the front door is something of a relief. Sherlock can handle a target on his own back, but when it strikes close to home, it turns his whole world upside down. His brain struggles to function because it floods with dread, and every decision is considered half a dozen times. If something goes wrong, it will be his fault, and his alone.

He tries to carry Molly's kitbag upstairs, but she takes it off him before he can even put it on his shoulder. They climb the stairs, their footsteps heavy and slow, and Sherlock finds himself counting, each step taking them closer and closer to bed.

Molly ditches her bag and coat as soon as they reach the lounge, leaving them in a pile near the door. There are dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and Sherlock steers her towards his bedroom, his hands on her shoulders. He needs to keep her close, needs to feel the warmth of her skin so that every time his brain torments him with visions of what might have happened, he can push them away with the reality of her.

She toes off her shoes and climbs under the covers, still wearing her bloodstained jumper. Sherlock shrugs off his coat and jacket, allowing them to fall to the floor, and he carefully lowers himself onto the bed. He gingerly touches his arm, his lips twitching when the wound smarts at the contact. Letting out a slow breath, he lays down on his back and stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take him.

His brain has other ideas. Despite the fact that every inch of him is saturated with exhaustion, he cannot slip into unconsciousness.

"Are you awake?" His voice is soft, but the hum of a reply comes almost immediately. "Come here," he says, and Molly rolls over, blinking at him blearily in the darkness. He puts his arm around her, guiding her closer, and she rests her head on his chest, making herself comfortable.

"You should always tell me," he murmurs. "Don't ever worry about telling me something, just say it."

There is another soft hum of response, and he tilts his head forward so he can press a kiss to her forehead.

He swallows the lump in his throat, the words building up in his chest, before they spill out of him. "I'd do anything to keep you safe."

Molly doesn't make a sound. She is lost in slumber, and so he plays with the ends of her hair, his eyes on the window as the sun creeps over the roofs of Baker Street. Eventually his eyelids close, and when he wakes, she's still there, curled up next to him, one leg hooked over his.

He reaches out to the bedside table for his phone, and his arm twinges at the movement. He has a dozen missed calls from Mycroft, before, at 6.41, he resigned himself to a text message.

 _Message delivered. She should be safe now. Please extend my apologies to her._

Sherlock grits his teeth, then shoves his phone under his pillow. 'Should' is not good enough. He'll have to be even more vigilant going forward, but Molly will be fine, he'll make sure of that. If last night has taught them anything, it's that he'll take a bullet for her any day of the week.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
